Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

Stacey said, “Dead ends are a given. That’s how these things go. We’re bound to run into a few along the way. All that tells us is to back up and look somewhere else. Lucky we found out about it now before we wasted any more time on it.”

“Knocks our hitchhiking theory all to hell,” Dolan said.

“Maybe so, maybe not. She could have gone to Lompoc by train or bus and hitched a ride from there.”

I said to Dolan, “What about the vehicles seen in the area? Any way to check those out?”

“Johanson said something about a hippie van. We could track down that guy—what’s his name . . .”

“Vogel.”

“Right, him. Why don’t we see what he remembers.”

“It’s a long shot,” I said.

“So’s everything else we’ve come up with so far.”

Stacey let that remark pass, still fixating on his original point about where the girl had come from. “Another possibility is she bummed a ride to Lompoc with a friend, someone she stayed with ’til she hit the road again.”

Dolan made a sour face. “Would you quit obsessing? We went over that before. If she’d had friends in the area, they’d have wondered what happened as soon as she disappeared.”

“Not if she’d told ’em she was on her way north. Suppose she stays in Lompoc a couple nights and then leaves for San Francisco. She goes out the door, has a run-in with the Devil, and ends up dead.”

“They’d still put two and two together as soon as the story broke.”

Stacey stirred irritably. “We’re not going to find answers to every question we ask.”

“So far we haven’t found answers to anything,” I remarked.

Stacey waved that aside. “Maybe our mistake is assuming she’s from somewhere else. Suppose she’s local? Someone kills her and then makes up a story explaining where she’s gone. That’s why she wasn’t reported missing. It’s part of the cover-up.”

Dolan was shaking his head.

“What’s wrong with that?”

Dolan sat back in the booth. “No one exists in a vacuum. She must’ve had family and friends. She worked, went to school. She did some damn thing. Somebody must have wondered. Essentially, this girl dropped off the face of the earth and you’re telling me no one noticed? There’s something off about that.”

I said, “But, Dolan, think of all the kids who disappeared in those days. There must be dozens unaccounted for. Families probably still fantasize they’ll show up one day.”

Stacey said, “Why don’t we forget that angle and come at it from the other direction?”

“Which is what?” I asked.

“What we talked about before, assume Frankie killed her and see if we can find a way to make it stick.”

“Based on what? Make that leap and we could end up spinning our wheels,” I said.

“We’re doing that anyway. The exercise is only pointless if it turns out we’re wrong. What do you say, Con?”

“I’m with you on that one. We’d be no worse off. I’ve always thought Frankie had a hand in it.”

Stacey turned to me. I said, “You’re the boss.”

“My thought exactly. Let me show you what I got.”

He opened a manila folder and removed two connected sheets of computer paper with perforated edges. I peered at the pale print. There, in abbreviated form, was Frankie Miracle’s criminal history, starting with his first arrest in Venice, California, in January of 1964. Stacey picked up the paper and began to rattle off the long string of his offenses. “I love this guy. Look at this. 1964. Kid’s twenty-one years old, arrested for drunkenness and resisting arrest. Fined twenty-five bucks and put on a year’s probation. Well, okay. No problem. His first contact with the law . . .”

“That we know of,” Dolan said.

Stacey smiled. “That’s right. But boys will be boys. They’re not going to execute the lad for public drunkenness. In May that same year, he was arrested for burglary and contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Probably screwed a thirteen-year-old. That’d be about his speed. Put on probation. In February of ’65, he was arrested for another burglary. He pleaded guilty; sentence was sixty days in jail and probation. Judge is really cracking down on him,” he said, tongue in cheek. “June 1965. Burglary again. This time, his probation’s revoked and he’s sentenced to state prison, six months to fifteen years; released after serving six months. December 1965. Drunk and disorderly, assault, and marijuana possession. Admitted for psychiatric evaluation and treatment of drug and alcohol dependency.” Stacey snorted derisively. “The guy’s a creep. We all know that. April 1966—burglary and escape. November 1966—robbery, kidnapping, attempted rape. This time they threw in assault and possession of a dangerous weapon. March 1967—another burglary. Oh, and here’s a good one. I can’t believe this guy’s back on the street. In January 1968, Frankie abducted a woman from a supermarket parking lot. He was later arrested on charges of kidnap, assault, robbery, oral copulation, sodomy, and attempted murder. You better believe she hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since she ran into him. January 1969—attempted kidnap, statutory rape, contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Now we’re getting down to business. In March 1969, he was picked up on charges of armed robbery, assault, and attempted murder. Case dismissed. Cops probably beat a confession out of him, and the public defender had the whole thing thrown out. Sometime in June, he met a sixteen-year-old girl named Iona Mathis. He was married to her briefly—six months I think.